


A Rose In Winter

by Flayedprincess



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 03:31:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11683116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flayedprincess/pseuds/Flayedprincess
Summary: Margaery Tyrell tires of the politics and drama of Kings Landing after King Joffrey's untimely passing, and her grandmother Olenna believes she's found an advantageous match for her granddaughter far North...





	1. Chapter 1

The weather was always so mild and perfect in King’s Landing. From the beautiful gardens outside the Red Keep, one could overlook the Blackwater Bay, and see the sun dance on it’s waves. A gentle breeze rustled the flowers and bushes that were so well-maintained, and the sun kept ones skin comfortably warm.

While it was, to say the least, a cesspool of sin and deceit – King’s Landing was quite beautiful. Well, if you were privileged enough to live or stay in the more wealthy parts of the huge city.

But despite being one of those lucky few who could call the Red Keep home, Margaery Tyrell was not impressed with the fortress. While captivating at first, she had grown tired of it’s walls, and the lions that littered every flag post and banner.

“ _How I miss Highgarden”…_ Passing a cluster of yellow rose bushes, she couldn’t help but be further reminded of home – Where the roses there would put these to shame. Despite the amount of effort put into the floral arrangements of the gardens, no amount of pleasant-smelling roses could mask the smell the city of Kings Landing was always contending with.

Margaery had discovered that the city had been hastily constructed during the first century of rule by the Targaryens and with little to no proper planning? Slum upon slum began to pop up until the streets were practically overflowing with peasants. The smell that followed those who couldn’t bathe regularly could be no surprise to anyone.

Highgarden certainly didn’t battle with that issue. The capital of the Reach had it’s peasants, of course… But filth was not spreading down the alleys and disease was not running rampant while the rich sat comfortably above, where it couldn’t reach them.

Margaery had done her best to donate to the less fortunate in Kings Landing, but even she could see there was no reversing the poverty and sickness years of neglect by council. And the King himself.

The Red Keep was a somber place that afternoon, despite the lovely weather. The gardens were almost empty, save for a few Lannister guards in their ridiculous armor.

But below? The poor were happy – King Joffrey was dead. They had truly dodged an arrow there. While they would continue to live in poverty, at least it wouldn’t be under the rule of a sadistic, spoiled boy.

Had Margaery dodged that same arrow, she wondered? Was this all for the best?

“Good afternoon, grandmother.”

Olenna looked almost as if nothing of note had even happened. Ravens flew overhead every few minutes with news of the king’s passing, servants wept, and it was absolute turmoil within the Keep. Who killed the king? What will happen now?

But, Olenna looked like this was another day, no different from all the rest.

“You look awful.”

“Thank you, grandmother...”

“I mean to say, you look as if you haven’t slept a wink. Or you’ve been crying. I’m hoping it’s the former.”

“Both.” Margaery took a seat beside her grandmother. The pair liked to convene under one of the stone gazebos in the garden. It was quiet – And of course, private. Not to mention it was shady and cool, and overlooked the water. Not that either of them were appreciating the view right then.

“I’m worried. I don’t know what this means.”

“It means the king is dead.”

She narrowed her eyes. “For me, grandmother. What does this mean for me? Am I the queen now?”

“More so now than you were with Renly. Less so than if Joffrey had done you the courtesy of consummating the marriage before… Well, dying. But in any case, I would not press the issue right now. A sensitive subject, if you will.”

Margaery stared absentmindedly out at the Bay, “Clawing at his throat, gasping for help… Looking to his mother to make it stop.” She shook her head, turning her attention back to Olenna. “It was horrible.”

The elder rolled her eyes, “The world is overflowing with horrible things,” She plucked a lemon cake from the platter by her side. “But they are all a tray of cakes next to death.”

Twisting her handkerchief, Margaery finally tossed it down in her lap with a defeated sigh. “One of my husbands preferred the company of men and was stabbed through the heart… The other was happiest torturing animals, and was poisoned at our wedding feast.” She brought her pale blue eyes up to her grandmother, water welling up in them. “I must be cursed.”

“Nonsense. Your circumstances have improved remarkably,” She leaned in closer, “You may not have enjoyed watching him die, but you enjoyed it far more than you would’ve enjoyed being married to him. I can promise you that.”

“I would’ve been _the queen_.” She glared.

Olenna leaned back in her seat, lacing her fingers together over her lap. She studied her granddaughter’s face. She looked pale, with dark circles and red around the eyes. And thin, too. Kings Landing had not treated her favorite grandchild with kindness.

“And is being the queen still what you _really_ want?”

The question struck a chord. A chord Margaery hadn’t felt was capable of being struck. To question her motives now? After everything she had done to get here...

And she had done a lot. Left the home she loved, her friends, and many of her family. All for the sake of being queen.

“We change our minds every day. Kings, queens, beggars, dogs. Sometimes, a person puts so much into one thing, we forget that there are other things out there. Then we have that moment of blessed realization. Which I hope you are having right now.”

Margaery’s lip quivered, and she squeezed her handkerchief. “I tried so hard.” Her voice cracked. “I wanted to be the queen. But now, I’m exhausted. I’m tired of the games I must play here. I don’t want to switch out my masks anymore, I want to be Margaery.”

Olenna felt a tug at her steel heartstrings. It took a lot to shake the Queen of Thorns… She’d seen a great deal in her many years. But seeing her beloved Margaery falling to pieces could do it.

“I hope you’re aware our alliance to the Lannisters is every bit necessary to them, as it is unpleasant to us. Wouldn’t they love to have their fingers around the Reach’s throat?”

“They’ll have it, anyway. With Loras. _He’s_ to be Lord of Highgarden.”

“Loras doesn’t have to marry Cersei. She’s as dried up as I am, anyway. If I tell Mace to call it off, that will be the end of it. And _none_ of my grandchildren will be married to a Lannister or a so-called Baratheon. And the crops will thrive and the lame will walk.”

Margaery cracked a smile. Olenna always knew what to say to cheer her up.

“That being said… There is another opportunity for you that I’ve recently caught word of, if you really want to be the thorn in Cersei’s side for all her _kindness_.”

“An oppurtunity?”

“Lord Bolton’s son was recently legitimized… And as such, he is heir to the Warden of the North—Lord of _Winterfell_.”

Margaery’s mouth fell open. “Lord _Bolton’s_ -”

“-Not so loud.”

“Have you gone mad, grandmother? I know you’ve heard as many stories as I have about the Bolton's, if not more. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

Olenna wagged a finger. “Your main enemy here was Cersei, pouring hate into that son of hers. But when she wasn’t around, you had Joffrey wound around your little finger.”

Margaery sighed.

“Don’t try and be coy, now. I’m proud of you. We women are blessed with an almost supernatural gift, and you know exactly how to use yours. Now, imagine if you could use it on Lord Bolton’s son… Wardeness of The North and Lady of Winterfell. Quite the title.”

“His father is the Warden, not him. And I know he recently married one of Walder Frey’s daughters, or granddaughters…” She shook her head. “So...”

“ _So_ …? His father is going to pass one day. So it is for all of us, Margaery. You know better than any of us, things take time. You won’t be Wardeness straightaway, but even still, the Reach and the North, and Tyrell and Bolton will be unified if you choose to do this. The North is larger than all the other Seven Kingdoms combined. A powerful person is the one who controls the North.”

She brushed a stray hair from her granddaughter’s face, with a smile. Not many got to see a genuine smile from Olenna. Margaery considered herself very lucky to be familiar with the expression.

“I want you to be happy, Margaery. You’re my heart. And I’m so proud to see what you’ve become. Thank the Gods you took after me and not your father.”

Margaery smiled, as well.

“They say the crown weighs heavily on he or she who wears it. And the Iron Throne was not built to be a comfortable chair. But the king and the queen are not the only ones who rule. If you had power over the North, you would still be a formidable force against anyone who dares to question you.”

“Usually, it’s the Lord who goes looking for a Lady. I’m sure there are plenty of eligible Northern women who are already vying for the same position...”

Olenna rolled her eyes. “A scruffy, rough northerner versus a beautiful rose from Highgarden? We both know you aren’t that modest.”

The elder stood from her chair, straightening her skirts. “I’ll be awaiting your decision. And when you do decide, Loras’ engagement will also be brought to a halt. And we can put this dreadful, stinking city behind us for good. Enjoy the lemon cakes, what’s left.”

She patted Margaery’s shoulder affectionately as she headed off, two handmaidens close in tow.

Accompanied only by the sounds of the wind in the trees, and the gulls over the Bay now, Margaery could go over everything Olenna was suggesting.

The North was a harsh place, she had always heard. The harsh climates there didn’t yield the necessities of daily life easily, and the constant iron grip of winter made the people a gruff, strong breed. They focused less on the comforts and courtly ritual of the South, and instead they preferred to brawl and hunt.

Indeed, very different from what Margaery had grown accustomed to. The climate, the culture, everything about the North was, honestly, intimidating the more she thought about it.

“ _Weigh the good_ and _the bad.”_ She reminded herself.

With Roose Bolton the Warden of the North, thus came the title Lord of Winterfell. And with Winterfell the capital of the North, Olenna was not exaggerating when she said he who controlled the North held great power.

Margaery had always been a firm believer that women were just as powerful as men, if not more-so. A girl could choose her own destiny, she didn’t have to do what was expected of her or even what she was told if she chose not to. Her dedication to the crown had developed at a young age, mainly due to seeing what a strong and independent woman Olenna was.

And she wouldn’t be shown up by the men in her family, either. Loras was the dashing knight, and Garlan was a skilled swordsman himself, though lacking in ambition unlike his brother. Willas, while crippled, was educated and well-loved by everyone in Highgarden. And he bred the finest hawks, hounds and horses in the Seven Kingdoms.

She felt confident that she had proved herself just as worthy of praise as her brothers. She had climbed the ladder of success herself, with due help from her grandmother, of course.

And while she wasn’t going to sit the Iron Throne now, she could still continue to rise higher, and grow stronger, like the golden rose on her family’s banner.

No, Margaery Tyrell was far from giving up. Cersei could keep the throne – but she would never have the Reach.

Nor the North.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was always cold in the North. That was why it was known as the North, of course. But perhaps the Starks had the right idea in their words – Winter is Coming. It most assuredly was. Winters lasted years there, children were born in the winter and many did not live to see another season.

Some say the long seasons were not natural. That the Gods did not intend for these severe climates, but that they came from the almost mythical event known as the Long Night – All those 8,000 years ago. White Walkers supposedly used the cover of a winter that lasted a generation, and a night that lasted for years to invade Westeros. They were defeated in the War for the Dawn, thrust back into the farthest reaches of the North… And prevented from returning by the erecting of The Wall.

Not everyone believed these stories, believing it folklore. Maids told their children the tales, and their children told their children…

Winters in the North separated men from boys and women from girls. A cruel and unforgiving season, wise Lords set aside non-perishables in preparation for the inevitable arrival of it. Many castles were built in favorable areas- Winterfell was built atop a hot spring, the water being piped through it’s walls and chambers to keep them warm. During the harsh northern winters, this made the castle more comfortable than others.

It even came equipped with an impressive greenhouse, that allowed the growing of vegetables even during the long winters. Even still, despite these precautions, famine and starvation were common in the northern winters… And one of the most predominant reasons the North was vastly unoccupied despite it’s massive size.

Ramsay had certainly never seen anything like Winterfell in all of his years. Not that he would ever openly admit it to anyone, but he had envied the Starks ever since he was a child and heard his first story of how incredible a fortress Winterfell was, when he was living with his mother at the mill.

His envy for the Starks as a young boy manifested into a hatred for them as he aged.

When he came to live with his father after his mother’s passing, there were no kind words passed around the table about the Starks at the Dreadfort. Only how ever since the Long Night, they had been bitter rivals. And the Bolton’s were always left in the shadow of the Stark’s greatness.

The underdog story of the Bolton’s struck a chord with young Ramsay, and even before he was legitimized he felt a deep connection with his father’s house.

And now? Ramsay could walk Winterfell’s halls like he owned the place. In a way, he did. His father was Lord of Winterfell and with that came the title of Warden of the North. Ramsay was now _Lord_ Ramsay Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort _and_ Winterfell. He felt it was every bit well-deserved, too.

And did he show it, strutting his way around the fortress with a hound or two in tow. And poor Reek was never too far behind, in the shadows.

“Father!” He exclaimed, as he shoved open the massive doors to the great hall. Many a great celebration had been held in that hall. Weddings, Namedays, feasts… The hall was one of the most cheerful places in Winterfell.

Or so it was- once upon a time.

It was dark and dreary now, with the only light being the candles from Roose’s desk and the fireplace roaring behind it. They couldn’t be bothered to light the candlesticks on the feasting tables or the ones hanging from the ceiling in massive, metal candelabras.

“I’m so glad to see you. How are you enjoying our new home?”

“I’m sure even you are aware of the situation outside these walls. I’m afraid I don’t have time to wander around and enjoy the scenery, Ramsay. There is much to be done before winter fully arrives. Don’t let the warm walls now deceive you. Even Winterfell needs support to stay upright during the coming season.”

Ramsay sucked his teeth. “I’m sure _you_ realize, also, I’ve contributed to our survival.”

Roose Bolton was known to everyone who knew him as a cold, calculating and often times unemotional man. What was going on behind his icy, gray eyes was as much a mystery to his wife or son as it was to a complete stranger. He could keep his head in even the most stressful of situations, or at least on the outside.

His words could cut deep enough that expression was not required.

“Have you?” He sat down his quill, reclining in his seat. He laced his hands together and rested them on his lap. “Pray tell, what have you done that will benefit our people? I haven’t seen nor heard of you picking up the first shovel, and that greenhouse needs to be stocked full of anything we can get in it.”

“I’ve hunted.”

“Chasing our people’s daughters through the woods with your bow and letting your hounds devour the corpse does not count as _hunting_!”

Roose rarely raised his voice, and Ramsay wouldn’t deny he flinched when his father shouted at him. He dropped his eyes to the floor like an unruly child being lectured.

“I’m not an idiot. I’ve known for a long time how you like to sport. I’ve turned a blind eye to your follies until now, because what concern of mine is the life or death of some farmer’s daughter? We need our farmers. We need our _men_. Abuse them and they will turn on us, and then we are left to die with no smallfolk to cook, nor clean nor toil away doing the things smallfolk do. I’m sure even you can understand that logic.”

“I suppose I’ll leave you to your papers, then, father.”

Ramsay turned on his heels as dramatically as possible, before Roose spoke up once more.

“I’m just as eager to be out of your presence as you are mine, but I’ve something here that pertains to you.”

“Should I prepare my neck for the executioner’s blade because I played hide and seek with the wrong girl and upset daddy?”

Roose’s fingers gripped the letter in his hand tighter, but he kept his cool. “No.”

He grabbed a chair and scraped it agonizingly slow across the floor, smirking as it screeched its way before Roose’s desk. He sat in it backwards, with his chest to the back of the chair and his legs straddling either side.

“A Tyrell sigil?” He spoke up as Roose pulled the contents from the letter bearing the golden rose. “Wouldn’t have to concern ourselves with greenhouses with them. All they talk about is _growing strong_.”

Roose peered over the top of the letter, then cleared his throat. “This letter is from lady Olenna, who is in Kings Landing right now with her granddaughter Margaery.”

“Ah, the new queen? Shame about her husband. Didn’t even get to the best part of the wedding before he croaked, I hear.”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your comments to a minimum while I read.”

“So sorry.”

“With Joffrey’s passing, Margaery is obviously a widow. It’s expected of her to return to Highgarden after the mourning period is over, and she will wait until her father finds her a suitable husband. But... Olenna believes she’s found a match that will be advantageous to both houses already.”

“I don’t care who some bitch from the Reach marries. If this is an invitation, I’d suggest a polite decline.”

“She suggests you marry Margaery.”

It grew quiet in the great hall. The fire crackled, a guard near the door sniffed. Ramsay was silent and Roose was awaiting his response.

“I know the very sound of the word ‘marriage’ is akin to that of a shackle snapping around your ankle. But you are a Lord now. A true Bolton. Is that not what you wanted? You think our house was formed thousands of years ago because our ancestors spent their time playing sick games in the woods with the peasants?”

“Actually, yes.”

“It wasn’t. The right marriage can solidify all the right connections. The Reach supplies over half of the Seven Kingdoms with their vegetables and fruits. Their land is the most fertile in perhaps all of Westeros. With any luck, their women are too. It’s time you make yourself truly useful not just to me, but to our house’s name. Marry Margaery Tyrell, and we have an alliance with the Reach. And that alliance means enough food for our people and ourselves to survive the winter. And an heir for you.”

“Well, then. It sounds like I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

“No, I should say not.”


	3. Chapter 3

Mira Forrester would have never left the comforts of Ironrath if she had a larger say in the matter. But her mother, lady Elissa, felt the girl should see the world and discover the other cultures offered beyond the North’s icy boundaries. And thus an arrangement was made for her to serve as a handmaiden to lady Margaery Tyrell.

The ladies of the southron courts were always so elegant and proper, like the ones from the fairy tales northern girls read about in their youth.

And the life of a northern girl could often times be so predictable. One was born, a marriage was arranged, she studied her needlework among a few other hobbies and then once she came of age she was married. Elissa, of course, wanted Mira to marry and carry on the Forrester bloodline in one way or another, but she also wanted more for her before that time came.

Poor Mira had wept the entire journey to Highgarden. Leaving behind Ironrath was the most painful thing the young girl had experienced. But to her great surprise, she had found she enjoyed attending to Margaery once she arrived in the beautiful city of Highgarden. And the two became fast friends.

When news arrived Margaery was to travel to Kings Landing, Mira was the first to pack her bags.

Mira wondered if Kings Landing was cursed. As almost immediately after their arrival, conflicts began. And her headstrong northern ways didn’t usually agree with the more subtle approaches of the southron court.

When Ironrath was threatened by the Bolton’s, Mira received word from her mother informing her of the dire situation at hand – and it was requested of her to ask Margaery to aid the Foresters in the coming storm. But the Foresters were loyal to house Stark, and perhaps it was without saying the request to protect them from the Bolton’s did not go over well with Joffrey.

It was shortly after that Mira received another letter from her mother, begging lady Margaery’s help again- this time to ensure the betrothal between Mira’s elder brother Rodrik and Elaena Glenmore remain in tact. And it was without a doubt, a letter from the queen-to-be could give the Glenmore’s the encouragement to honor the betrothal. But Margaery had to decline that time, as already she was walking on thin ice.

Multiple other occurrences caused a rift between the Tyrell and Forester, and the threat of Mira being sent home to the chaos that had unfolded in Ironrath was high. Until Margaery and Olenna had their fateful discussion about Margaery’s potential new betrothal.

“My lady.”

Mira shut the doors behind her as she entered Margaery’s large, albeit now empty, chambers. She couldn’t hide the shock as she observed the room – barren of any of the previous personal touches Margaery had added to make it more her own.

“It looks like a different room, now, doesn’t it?” Margaery was seated at the table in the center of the room, a cask and two glasses before her.

Margaery’s room there in the Red Keep was one of the most open and airy, with two large doors that opened out to the balcony and with windows abound. It let natural light and the smell from the ocean in. Mira always sort of envied it, as her room there in Kings Landing, like all the handmaidens, was quite small. Big enough for the essentials, and that was about it.

“Are you…?”

“Drinking?” Margaery raised her eyebrows. “Well, yes. But, don’t worry, I’m not turning into Cersei.”

The handmaiden could easily see she was not used to too much drink, with her reddish cheeks and lopsided smile. And Margaery had previously admitted it herself – that wine dulled the senses. A sensation she wasn’t fond of. But Mira couldn’t disagree with the fact Margaery deserved to have a glass, or three, after everything she had tolerated since she first got to Kings Landing.

“Would you care for some?” She was already in the process of pouring the second glass as Mira made her way over and took a seat across from her.

The sky was painted blue and transitioned into a vivid orange as it hit the line of the Narrow Sea, with splashes of fluffy clouds that leisurely floated along the canvas. A gentle breeze rustled the long, white curtains on either side of the windows and doorway, and other than the sound of Margaery slowly filling up Mira’s glass, only the ambient sounds of the docks below were audible. Bells chimed, fishermen peddled their wares.  
For a moment, Kings Landing wasn’t all that bad.

“You know, I’ll _almost_ be sad to say farewell to this place.” Reclining comfortably in her seat, Margaery took another small swig. Mira wasn’t sure if it was because she was comfortable enough with her to drop the proper posture expected of a lady and relax, or if it was the wine helping Margaery loosen up.

“May I speak freely, my lady?”

“I intend for you to.”

“Then,” she cleared her throat. “Why _are_ you leaving? I know I’ve heard lord Tommen’s name mentioned… You would have made for a wonderful queen. I know you could do it, still. Don’t let Cersei intimidate you.” She took a small sip.

Margaery tilted her glass bottoms up and finished it off. How many glasses that was now, was anyone’s guess. “I told myself that. But even if I could continue to look past Cersei, I think the city as a whole is draining the life from me. One can’t get their head above the water long enough for a breath of air before they are dragged back down by some other petty argument.”

“Cersei and all the others would have no choice but to love you if you were queen. You should show them the real you, and let them see your true heart.”

“You think it wise to give Cersei that much access to my heart?”

“True. She might stab it with her fork. Or have someone do it for her.”

“You catch on quickly, Mira. More?” She offered the pitcher, and when Mira shook her head, she poured herself the final glass and looked disappointingly into the empty thing now. “I can’t be myself here. There will always be someone to impress, even when Cersei is gone. But that comes with the crown, I suppose. It took me until now to fully understand what I would be contending with on a daily basis.”

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

Margaery furrowed her brows. “Sorry for what? Don’t feel any pity for me. I’ll be out of this nest of vipers, and I can put this unpleasantness behind me. Forever.” She said determinedly. “I must admit, I envy Cersei in a way. She knows how to play the game. If she wants the throne that badly-” She raised her glass. “-Sit on it.”

Mira blinked. The wine didn’t make an idiot of Margaery, but it did loosen her tongue. She saw more of lady Olenna in her now than she had ever seen. “So, are you returning to Highgarden?” She took another small sip. The wine _was_ sweet, and nearly clear in her glass, with a slight yellow tint. Far from the bitter, red wines the queen regent enjoyed. “Wherever it is you go, please let me go with you, lady Margaery.”

The Tyrell woman smiled, setting down her glass. “I appreciate your loyalty, Mira. It means a great deal to me.”

She was dodging the question, and Mira noted it. “Please don’t mistake this as my speaking out of turn, my lady. But—for my loyalty, I would expect your honesty.”

She swallowed, and sat up straighter in her chair again. “Roose Bolton’s son, Ramsay, was recently legitimized, as I’m sure you may have overheard.”

Mira’s hands gripped her skirts, and her jaw set at merely the mention of the name. “Ramsay Snow _murdered_ my brother.” Her gaze didn’t falter. “Please don’t say what I think you’re going to.”

Margaery focused on the sunset, glancing out the corner of her eye.

“Is that what you summoned me here for? To tell me _that_?” She rose from her seat, the chair toppling over behind her. “You would really consider marrying him? After I begged you to ask for Joffrey’s help to stop him!”

“I did try, Mira! You saw the bruises, you were the one who mended my dress after Joffrey struck me for even entertaining the idea of protecting a family of Stark supporters!”

“You think a ripped gown or a bruise is anything? Ramsay shoved a dagger into my brother’s throat, in front of my mother and siblings! Imagine what he would do to _you_.”

Margaery made her way around the table, to get closer to the Forester girl. “I’ve heard the stories, Mira.”

“My brother’s death is not a _story_!” She grabbed Margaery by the arms, looking desperately up to her. “It’s real. There are things said of him that I can scarce believe, even of a Bolton. He is a monster.”

“And his father is now Warden of the North, and so shall Ramsay be when he passes. Cersei thinks she’s defeated me, that I’ve given up entirely, and that is why I’m leaving. Little does she know, I’ve only found another way to undermine her.”

Mira hopelessly sat down on one of the many clothing trunks littered about the room, folding her hands over her lap. “Is all this worth it? Just to get back at Cersei?”

Margaery knelt before the girl, taking both of her hands in her own. She could see Mira had no interest in hearing any more of what she had to say by the way her eyes were trained on the floor, but she had to try. “The Tyrells are a brave and strong family. My family tree’s roots run deep. If tucked my tail and ran now, how do I paint my family’s name? I’ll tell you. Cowardly and weak. I cannot and I will not disrespect my house that way.” She squeezed her hands. “In doing this, I’m showing Cersei – and anyone else – The Tyrells are not just weeds to be stomped out.”

Mira finally looked up. Her words resonated with her, as a girl’s actions did reflect that of her house. And what would they be without their noble roots?

“I need your help, though, Mira. I don’t know the first thing about the North, save for what I’ve read or been told. But you...” Margaery smiled up at her, “Are a Northern girl. A Forester girl. And are they not a proud and strong family like the trees on their banners?”

She nodded weakly. “Yes… But I’m not.”

“But you _must_ be. I know I’m asking too much, Mira, believe me – I know.” Margaery’s gaze was unfaltering. “But please, if this marriage is approved, come with me to Winterfell. Show the Bolton’s they don’t intimidate you. Show them how strong the Foresters really are.”

A lump went down Mira’s throat as she swallowed, and she finally looked into Margaery’s determined eyes. “Alright, my lady. I’ll go with you to Winterfell.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading so far! I understand the couple here is extremely out of left field. Margaery and Ramsay are my two favorite characters in both the show and the books. I've always wondered what it would be like if they met. This is definitely a wild "What-If" scenario, where Margaery never married Tommen and Ramsay never married Sansa/Jeyne/Arya whatever. I've used characters from the books, the TellTale games series, and the show. Here's hoping you enjoy my insane ship, as well. :)


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